FIVE INDIAN POLITICAL FILMS TO WATCH

Newton (2017)

In this smart, caustic film by Amit Masurkar, Rajkummar Rao’s earnest civil servant tries to conduct fair polls in a Naxal-controlled village.

While We Watched (2022)

Vinay Shukla’s documentary examines the state of news media through the figure of TV anchor Ravish Kumar.

Iruvar (1997)

Mani Ratnam’s musical explores the complicated relationships of star-politicians M.G. Ramachandran, M. Karunanidhi and Jayalalithaa.

Hun Hunshi Hunshilal (1992)

Sanjiv Shah’s film, set in a fictitious land ruled by a despot, is both a charming musical comedy and a deft political satire.

The Battle of Banaras (2014)

This documentary by Kamal Swaroop is an atmospheric look at the holy city of Varanasi during the 2014 election.

of the great moments of 20th-century propaganda cinema anywhere”. Their leaders—most famously actor M.G. Ramachandran and writer M. Karunanidhi—made dozens of wildly popular films that functioned as political mission statements.

Historian M.S.S. Pandian writes in The Image Trap: M.G. Ramachandran In Film And Politics of an election promise in 1967 to provide 4.8 kilograms of rice at the nominal price of one rupee. This became a song praising the government in the 1968 MGR film Oli Vilakku: When a measure of rice/ is sold for a rupee/why should we go begging. It was implemented “with obvious reluctance” when the party came to power.

When journalist Vaasanthi writes in Cut-outs, Caste and Cine Stars that “The dramatic expressions of popular (Tamil) cinema are seen reflected in the expressions of real-life politics as if the movies were just one arena for colourful dramas,” she could be describing the rhetoric of some presentday BJP leaders. But there’s a fundamental difference: the DMK’s was an authored propaganda, while the pro-government films of recent years are made by people with a variety of interests: some in the party, others close to it, some with no particular political outlook.

DISABLING DISSENT

Last week I watched, via private screener, Dibakar Banerjee’s Tees, a film commissioned by Netflix but never released. Its three timelines span past, present and future—Kashmir in the uneasy days before the exodus of the Pandits; the Mumbai of today; and a heavily surveilled future two decades from now— seen through the eyes of one Muslim family. The arcs are presented non-chronologically, as if to compel the viewer to piece together a timeline of national failures. It’s a sombre film, but Banerjee does have some fun.

A writer (played by Shashank Arora) is summoned by the literature committee to discuss an innocuous cookbook he’s submitted in the hope of being left alone. They are unhappy with “Kashmiri” being attached to dum aloo, and also that 18% of the words in the manuscript are Urdu. It’s a send-up of censor board meetings by a director who’s seen his share.

I’d expected a howl of despair, but Tees is more thoughtful and pained than angry. It’s the sort of film that could conceivably draw viewers through wordof-mouth on a streaming platform. But Indian streaming has been tamed, with makers under intense pressure to excise political content.

Banerjee says the targeting of the Amazon Prime political series Tandav (2021) was a tipping point. “The government calculated correctly that a large part of the film community is in it to maintain their social status, their prestige, not to say something provocative. The moment you put a hold on the privileges, they are quite ready to cave in. They sussed out the film community correctly, pressed the right buttons. Everybody toed the line.”

Dissent in Hindi film today, while not entirely absent, is sporadic. There’s nothing with the bite of the politically minded films from the early years of the current government like Haider (2014) or Mukkabaaz (2017). Still, two films from last year, Bheed and Afwaah, managed theatrical releases despite being critical of the government. A lot was also made of Shah Rukh Khan in Jawan (2023) telling viewers heading into an election year to vote carefully.

Tougher criticisms, and far more innovative filmmaking, can be found in recent Hindi non-fiction cinema: Reason (2018), The Great Abandonment and A Night of Knowing Nothing in 2021, All That Breathes, Writing With Fire and While We Watched in 2022. But outspoken political documentaries rarely make it to streaming platforms or show outside of a few festivals here.

It’s a very different Bollywood from six or seven years ago. The Film Certification Appellate Tribunal—a vital option for redressal if the censors blocked your film’s release— was abolished in 2021. The proposed Broadcasting Bill, if passed, will result in even greater State control over the streaming space. In big and small ways, the government has slowly tightened the screws on the industry.

“The celebration of lack of meaning will continue,” Banerjee says. “And in this the film-makers and the audience will collude.

In the 1958 film Phir Subha Hogi, Sahir Ludhianvi turned Allama Iqbal’s Tarana-e-Milli on its head in a stunning critique of Nehru’s India: Cheen-o-Arab humara, Hindustan humara/Rehne ko ghar nahin hai, saara jahaan humara (China and Arabia are ours, India is also ours/There is no roof over our heads/yet the entire world is ours). Contrast this with the bland boasting of Vande Mataram (The Fighter Anthem ) in 2024—India is a celebration, winning is in our every fibre, even enemies salute us. Election film season will be over soon, but Hindi cinema’s crisis of confidence looks likely to continue. The first step to recovery is to stop flattering the powers that be.